


Cuff Him

by Jet44



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e09 Point Blank, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jet44/pseuds/Jet44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal was on the brink of murdering Fowler with a stolen gun. He's led away in cuffs. The next thing we see is Neal, Peter, and Fowler calmly discussing the case in Peter's office. What happened in between, and why wasn't Neal sent back to prison on about a dozen charges? </p><p>Here. Have a nice angst-laden answer to those questions :D Pure, unabashed hurt/comfort fic with no real point beyond an excuse for Peter to have to handcuff Neal and hurt him, and then cuddle the heck out of him afterwards. There's sort of a plot, if you want to look closely and are feeling generous with your definition of "plot."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As often as Peter had threatened to stash him down here, it took him almost murdering Fowler for it to actually happen.

Neal’s stomach turned when Diana closed the steel door, locking him into a tiny holding cell on the thirteenth floor. Four years in prison, and that sound could still leave him chilled. One of the very few things he hadn’t gotten used to.

He looked through the door. The top half was barred, the bottom solid, and it was a visually pleasing forest green. Good use of color psychology. It even calmed _him_ down. Outside stood a very stern Clinton Jones and a sad Diana.

Neal got why Peter had handed the official Bureau response over to them, but all three plainly wished he hadn’t. After a long, awkward silence, Jones shoved his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat.

“I’m not comfortable with this,” said Jones. “Making decisions about you feels like Peter’s job, not ours.”

“I know,” said Neal, trying to get a read on Jones. Diana would argue for mercy. Clinton....or Peter? Who would his chances be better with?

Peter would be angry on a personal level, and had a pretty rigid interpretation of the law. But he also cared deeply about Neal and had a kind heart.

Jones wasn’t angry. It was expected behavior on the part of a felon. But Jones was ex-military, a rigid disciplinarian, and more a friendly co-worker than a friend.

Peter. Peter would make it hurt like hell. But the odds of staying out of prison would be better with him than Jones.

“Look,” said Neal, proceeding carefully. “Peter is - an incredibly ethical FBI agent. I know he’s afraid his friendship with me will compromise his judgment. But it’s compromised anyway. Think for one second you could make this decision for him - either way -and not feel his eyes on your back second-guessing you for a couple years to come?”

“Would you fight the charges?” asked Diana.

Neal looked down. “Yes.”

“What would you say?” she asked.

“Whatever my lawyer recommends,” said Neal, keeping his voice even and respectful. “But I’ll never do anything to hurt you, in or out of court.”

Jones sighed. “There’s only one person qualified to decide whether he trusts you after this, and that’s Peter. I’m putting this hot Caffrey potato back in _his_ hands.”

“Thank you,” said Neal quietly. “Whatever he decides, it’ll be easier coming from a friend.”

Jones gave him a hard, disgusted look. He wasn’t falling for any of it. He’d merely wanted an out and Neal had given him one on request.

“If I were Peter, I’d make you live in this cell sleeping on concrete for the next month,” said Jones. “And then you’d spend a damn eternity under house arrest, in isolation in the bleakest little shithole apartment I could find with no phone, no books, no TV, until you wished you were back in prison. That’s what I’m recommending to him if he does keep you around.”

Jones about-faced and left, taking Diana with him.

Neal glanced around. This was to jail cells what the White Collar interview room was to police interrogation rooms. Quiet, clean, and almost pretty, with fresh green and white paint and music from a radio trickling in from somewhere down the hall.

But it was a six by six concrete box containing nothing but a poured concrete bench too narrow to lie on. It would be hell to live in. Even the worst holes in Sing Sing had room to lie down and a toilet.

Jones’ threat was nasty, in a restrained sort of way, but it was also completely absurd. It wouldn’t be legal, even if for some reason Peter condoned the idea. It was, frankly, beneath him.

And then Neal started to smile. Yeah. Jones was smarter than that.

A _lot_ smarter.

* * *

 

“You know his relationship with Caffrey is exactly why he wants you to make this decision,” said Diana. “His ethics - he won’t let you just hand this back off to him because we don’t want the responsibility.”

Jones’ face twisted in discomfort. “His ethics are what I’m gonna use. Won’t be pretty, but he’ll yank Caffrey out of my hands five minutes into this meeting.”

“You’re going to con Peter?” asked Diana. “That’s - ballsy.”

“Yep. Already started,” said Jones.

A relieved smile spread across Diana’s face. “Ah.”

“Let’s just hope Peter’s as forgiving of me as he is Caffrey, because I’m about to replace our pet felon on his shit list.”

“I’ll buy you a drink after work,” said Diana.

“Make it several,” muttered Jones.

* * *

 

“Did you actually tell _our co-worker_ you wanted to lock ‘im in a six by six concrete holding cell for a month, and mean it?”

Peter’s fists clenched in anger. Jones could be hard, and insensitive. But how a decent and intelligent man had gotten this so wrong, he didn’t know. “If he stays, your life’s gonna be in his hands one day. You know that, right?”

“Yes.” Jones sounded utterly sure of himself. “Caffrey isn’t fragile, and he knows what he is.”

“Yeah. An intelligent and sensitive human being. I wanted you to handle the legal end, not kick him around with malignant revenge fantasies,” snapped Peter. He sounded pissed, and he didn’t even remotely care.

“I’ve heard you say a hell of a lot worse to him,” said Jones, shrugging his shoulders. “I was just being honest.”

“I _earned_ the right to talk to him like that,” said Peter. “It took a lot of work on my part to gain his trust that I would never, ever do something for the sole purpose of making him miserable.”

“You earned the right to have him steal a gun and almost kill someone with it. He almost literally thinks he can get away with murder. Caffrey needs his ass kicked. We can’t do that, but we can make his life miserable enough that he won’t forget it,” said Jones.

“What the _hell_?” Peter caught himself almost yelling at Jones. He wasn’t just angry, he felt betrayed and stupid. He’d trusted a tricky situation, not to mention his best friend’s future, to this guy.

Peter tried to continue in a calmer tone, but it was still hostile. “If harsh punishments worked on Caffrey? Giving a first-time offender four years in the most infamous maximum security prison in New York, for nonviolent white collar crimes, would’ve reformed him, don’t you think?”

He started to walk out of the office, but even Peter’s toes were still curled in anger. He whipped around to face Jones again. “Oh. And I hope to God you never have kids, because you’d be one hell of a shitty father.”

“Whatever you say, boss. I’m sure he’s very grateful to have you as his handler.”

The veiled insult wasn’t lost on Peter. “Yeah. _I’m_ his handler. _I’m_ handling this.”

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

 

Neal held his face blank when Peter walked up to the cell. Peter studied him through the bars for an agonizingly long time, his face equally blank. It wasn’t unfriendly, per se. But it was Peter the FBI agent evaluating Neal Caffrey the suspect. His face was tense, but revealed nothing.

“Turn around, Neal,” he said finally, unlocking the door. “I’m gonna cuff you.”

Neal obeyed, and Peter stepped close, positioning Neal’s arms behind his back.

It was a small enough thing, but horrifying. Peter never cuffed Neal’s hands behind his back. Peter always did it gently, in front. There had long been a tacit understanding between them that Neal didn’t actually need to be restrained, and could just get out anyway. For his part, Neal never resisted or tried to escape. It was a wordless demonstration of deep mutual trust and respect at their worst and most painful moments.

Peter closed the cuffs, then stroked the backs of Neal’s hands with his thumbs. “Relax your hands, Neal. No making your wrists bigger so you can slip out.”

Neal’s heart pounded, and his breath caught in his throat. But that touch had held a great deal of kindness. He reluctantly relaxed his hands, which took some concentration because every muscle in his body was coiled in tension.

Peter waited patiently for him to manage it, then ratcheted the cuffs down snug around his wrists. _Really_ snug. It didn’t quite hurt, but it was right on the line between uncomfortable and painful, and Neal wanted to whimper.

It did hurt, emotionally, being put in the category of “violent criminal who needs to be restrained” in Peter’s eyes. He shivered. Not just in Peter’s eyes. He was going to be a violent criminal now in the eyes of the criminal justice system.

“Do those hurt?” asked Peter, misreading his shiver.

Neal really, really wanted to say yes. His heart hurt. Peter wouldn’t be able to live with the idea of putting Neal in pain, and he’d loosen them. But that would be a lie.

“No,” he said, his voice coming out small.

The ripping sound of duct tape behind him made him startle. He resisted the impulse to cringe away or struggle or at least look to see what Peter was up to. What the hell was Peter going to do now, tape his hands together? Gag him?

_Help._

Peter taped over the cuffs, and Neal realized he was blocking the key holes against picking. Then he zip-tied the chain linking the handcuffs to Neal’s belt, so that there was no chance of wiggling his hands in front of him, or even bending forward much.

Neal’s legs went numb and his arms tightened in visceral horror. Peter was really, truly restraining him. This wasn’t a formality, and Neal couldn’t get out. He was going to prison, and Peter didn’t trust him in the slightest or even want to talk to him about it.

Peter explored Neal’s wrists carefully with his fingers, then did the unthinkable and deliberately pulled the zip tie tighter and tighter until the cuffs were wrenched down towards his belt, biting into his wrists hard enough to hurt.

Neal cried out, a small but frantic noise, but not because the pain was bad enough to make him scream. It was shorthand for _Stop, Peter, you’re hurting me_ , a pleading sound reserved only for someone he trusted to care. Peter did stop, and didn’t tighten the strap any further, but he didn’t apologize either.

The world went sideways. There was a low, static buzz in Neal’s ears, and his chest tightened painfully, and all he could hear for a minute was the sound of his frantic, shallow breathing.

Peter stepped back around front where he could see Neal’s face. He grimaced. “Jeez, Neal, you look like a kicked puppy.”

Neal gulped. “Am I supposed to look ecstatic?” He was trembling. He could take this from anyone _but_ Peter.

_Please, please don’t let it be like this. Take me to prison, but please don’t let this be the last memory I have of our friendship._

He tried to meet Peter’s eyes, but he knew he was going to cry if he did, so he concentrated on trying to stay on his feet.

“I’m taking you up to talk to Fowler,” said Peter. “Trust me-” His voice cracked, and Neal realized why the lack of talking before. “You’re going to want to be restrained for this.”

Peter laid a hand on the side of Neal’s arm. “Trust me.” His voice was tight, and uneven, and carried an immense amount of distress.

Neal closed his eyes and focused on breathing, focused on that touch, focused on trusting the man behind it. Peter clearly wasn’t doing this to frighten or punish him, and Neal did trust him. With his life, with his future. And even with rendering him helpless in a terrifying and painful fashion.

He stopped shaking, and his muscles relaxed. His heart still hurt, but he was calm. There was nothing he could do to take back what had happened, or alter where things went from here. If Peter wanted to take over entirely right now, Neal was willing and relieved to let him.

He opened his eyes and drew in a deep, much-needed breath. “I do.”

Peter led him into the interrogation room, and Fowler was there in cuffs too.

“Hi, Neal,” said Fowler with a a dry half-smile.

Neal tensed, the blood pounding hot and hard through his heart, focusing his vision like a pinpoint of fury right on Fowler. He should have shot the bastard when he had the chance. Prison or no prison. At least he’d be alive, a luxury Kate didn’t have. That Fowler shouldn’t have.

“Neal. Neal. Neal.” Neal didn’t register Peter’s warning words until the agent jerked on the chain linking the handcuffs and pain shot up his arms. He’d forgotten he was wearing them, forgotten Peter was in the room, forgotten where they were entirely. He was struggling to get to Fowler, to tear him limb from limb on the spot.

“Neal.”

Another jerk, harder this time, twisted the cuffs and ground their hard metal edges against nerves and bone so fiercely that the pain almost made him scream. He heard someone let out a stifled yelp, and realized it had been him. It took that, for Neal to snap out of a blinded, tunnel-vision focus on Kate’s murderer.

Kate’s. Murderer.

Reality and physical pain cleared his head, and he contented himself with directing a look of pure hate at Fowler.

_I can get you even if I’m wearing cuffs. Do you know how many murderers I count as friends? Do you know how far some of those terrifying fuckers would go to help me?_

“Neal, can you hear me?” asked Peter.

At first Neal didn’t, but the self-preserving part of his subconscious that really didn’t want to get jerked like that again caught his attention.

“Yeah.”

“Camera’s on, audio’s not,” said Peter. “Nothing that’s said in this room in the next few minutes is going on any official record.”

Peter led Neal over to a chair and made him sit, supporting him firmly on the way down so he wouldn’t have to put pressure on tender wrists to balance himself.

“Neal, Fowler says he didn’t kill Kate, and I believe him.”

Fowler met Neal’s eyes. “I didn’t. I didn’t kill her, I didn’t cause her to be killed, and I didn’t try and kill you.”

Fowler’s voice was low and subdued, and the former command and triumph, the smugness, was gone from his face. He spoke again, quiet and serious.

“I’m not an innocent man. When I’m done talking to you and Peter today, I’m going to prison. If you want me to suffer for what I did do to you, it’s going to happen. But I did _not_ kill Kate. I didn’t want to harm either of you and still don’t.”

Neal stopped breathing. Fowler was telling the truth. He recognized it in every minute movement in the guy’s face. He recognized the absolute sadness and surrender.

A shiver ran up his spine and didn’t stop, and his stomach tightened like he’d been punched in the gut. _Oh, God. Oh, God. I almost shot someone, and he was innocent. I almost revenge-murdered an innocent FBI agent._

He retched, and choked, catching it just in time when the handcuffs pinning his arms back bit mercilessly into his wrists as he tried to lean forward. The sharp pain actually steadied him, and he sat still.

Peter had a hand on his shoulder and was holding on firmly, calming him, that grip and the restraints the only things holding him together.

“I’m - sorry, Fowler,” said Neal, his voice coming out completely messed up, cracking and uneven. “I’m _really_ sorry. Peter dug his fingers into Neal’s shoulder, hard enough to bruise before Neal even registered it.

_Shut up._

_Okay._

“You two both screwed up, _bad_ ,” said Peter. “Fowler’s willing to talk to us about what really happened, and it’s going to send him to prison. You two are an FBI agent and my partner. I’d like to be able to move this into my office and have us sit down and talk like the decent people we all are. No anger, no restraints, just talking. This is a hard day. Can we not make it more painful than we have to?”

Neal gulped. “Yes.”

Fowler eyed Neal and nodded.

Peter spoke again. “Fowler, are you comfortable being in a room with Neal? You’re the one he was trying to kill, and I’m not about to put you at risk.”

Neal gave Fowler his most sincerely apologetic look, and Fowler nodded. “If you trust him, so do I.”

“I’ll trust him by the time I bring him in,” said Peter.

Neal’s legs were weak. Astonishingly so. He hadn’t been expecting that, but Peter had, and the agent supported him effortlessly and marched him out of the interview room, down the hall, and into a conference room.

His eyes were playing weird tricks on him with pinpricks of light, and things going gray or wobbly, and he could hear his pulse in his ears, and he wasn’t sure exactly how he was propelling his legs. His mind simply couldn’t handle all the shocks.

_Fowler. Innocent. Almost shot him. Violent criminal. Me. Gun. I’m a felon. I stole a gun. Oh, shit._

He could still feel the trigger under his finger. The tiny movement it would have taken to fire a bullet into a living person, an innocent person. He knew what it looked like, blood and splintered bone and brain matter and the horrifying realization that nobody truly died instantly. He knew how to handle guns, knew better than to put his finger on the trigger until he was ready to shoot. His finger _had_ been on the trigger, and there had been no internal restraint or mercy stopping him from squeezing it.

“Neal.”

Just Peter’s voice, ordering and pleading and reasoning with him. That voice he’d come to love and trust was the most powerful restraint in the world. It was the sole reason he wasn’t a murderer.

“Neal.” Peter had said it several times, again, he realized. Just like he had in the interview room, firm, steady, trying to dig through the buzzing fog in his brain, catch his attention, make him think. “Neal.”

“Whay - wha-t?”

Peter was rubbing his back, patting him gently, trying to bring him out of it, and he focused on that. It was a pleasant, comforting sensation he trusted.

“Can you hear me now?” asked Peter.

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna cut you loose, literally. Need to use a knife on the zip ties and tape, an’ I don’t want to cut you by mistake. Need you to hold still, okay?”

“Yeah.” He thought he could do that.

“Hold still, Neal,” Peter repeated as he worked. “Hold still. Hang in there, buddy. Hold still. You’re alright. Hold still.”

The second the cuffs came off, Neal crumbled. Now he got why Peter’d done it, and that it wasn’t just out of an excess of caution to keep him from going after Fowler. They’d been the only thing holding him together.

He hit the floor, gasping, shaking, hyperventilating. Peter sat down close beside him.

“I - almost - killed - an innocent man.” Neal gulped over and over again in nausea and dry-heaved. “Oh God. Oh God.”

“Neal, you look at me and you listen to me. Right now, with everything you’ve got.” Peter’s voice was like iron, and Neal wasn’t looking forward to the impact, but he obeyed.

“ _This_ is why we do it right. Because the consequences of doing it wrong are too horrible to even contemplate. This is why you obey the law, Neal. You are playing with life and death and people’s entire futures. You. Do. It. Right.”

The words penetrated like ice. Peter was sitting inches away, directly in front of him, looking him right in the eye. Deadly serious.

And this was why he felt such a profound trust for Peter Burke. Because never discounted how serious the decisions he made were to Neal or anyone else. He made them carefully, and for the right reasons, and he cared.

He made himself really look into Peter’s eyes, without reservation, in lieu of having any idea what to say in response. He saw absolute focus, but also one other reason he trusted his handler so deeply. The gentleness in those soft brown eyes.

“I can’t - I don’t - I - Peter, help. I - how - what’s -”

Neal put his head down, resting his forehead on Peter’s shoulder and closing his eyes. He hadn’t avenged Kate’s death, he couldn’t, and instead he’d put an innocent man through the terror of watching his life counting down to the end.

He was shaken, shaking, and feeling as small and hurting as possible. He’d screwed absolutely everything up.

And regardless of whether Peter was about to take him to jail, he knew where to find solace. Peter stroked him gently and silently on the back of his head and upper back, just being there and being Neal’s refuge.

After a couple of minutes Neal’s breathing steadied, and with his free hand Peter took hold of one of Neal’s wrists and rubbed it. “You okay with what I did back there?”

Neal grimaced and nodded. Peter was like a person-managing savant. If anyone had suggested that chaining him up and dragging him in front of Fowler in cuffs would be a good way to preserve his dignity, he’d have flipped them off with one of his very trussed-up fingers. Way to make him look like a forgiving badass, though. Wow.

“Yes.”

Peter had his fingers against the groove the handcuffs had indented in his wrist, and was massaging in tiny, light circular motions that felt wonderful on stinging skin.

“You’ve got a hell of a pain threshold when you’re pissed,” said Peter. “Afraid I probably gave you some nasty bruises.”

Neal shivered. “That’s - about the last thing I care about.”

He still had his head on Peter’s shoulder, and Peter was still stroking him slowly with the hand that wasn’t rubbing his wrist. He closed his eyes and just enjoyed it for a minute.

“I’m going back to prison, aren’t I?” Neal asked after a bit. It wasn’t really a question.

Maybe if Fowler really had been the killer, Neal would have gotten away with it as justified rage. But he’d held an innocent person at gunpoint and nearly murdered him in front of FBI agents. He just wanted to know, and crawl into Peter’s arms and be cared about for a last few minutes before he said goodbye to the best friendship and the best years he’d ever known.

“I need to talk to Fowler about that,” said Peter. “Maybe not. You listened to me, you didn’t pull that trigger, you surrendered, and that’s a million miles away from where we’d be right now if you had. We’ll see.”

Neal nodded, tense, wishing he knew now. He welcomed hope, but not suspense.

“If - it goes that way -” Neal was hit by a sense of enormous grief, just trying to make this one plea. “Let me say goodbye to you. Please?”

He was feeling so much love that he was trying not to cry in the face of how fast he could be arrested and taken away with no chance to truly hug Peter, and show him how much this friendship had meant, and how deeply he appreciated and cherished every act of caring. If he was going back to prison, it was for a long time, and Peter had given him the happiest years of his life to cling to.

Peter put both arms around him and hugged him. “I will. I will.” 

Far too soon, Peter stood, pulling Neal up with him. “Come on. Let’s not drag this out. I’ll go talk to Fowler.”

Neal’s heart sank when he saw that Peter was leading him back to the holding cells. But there were no handcuffs this time, and he remembered Peter’s command to trust him. That terrifying restraint job had turned out to be something he was grateful for. If Peter wanted him to go into a cell, right now, he’d do it without complaint.

It was uncomfortable, but not awfully so. Sitting on the bench, leaning into the corner, at least gave some shelter and support.

Peter had told him once that the holding cells had been designed to be as pleasant as practical because they ended up putting a lot of innocent and scared people in them in the course of complex investigations.

Neal closed his eyes and gave up. He could look at all the positive sides all he wanted, but the raw fact was he’d been locked up in his own FBI building, by his own handler, and it hurt. This was the one place he’d felt somewhat trusted, and having screwed up so badly that Peter felt the need to lock him in a cage stung, badly.

He bit his lip to keep from crying. He’d stolen a gun and nearly murdered a former FBI agent. He warranted the cell and the handcuffs. It wasn’t overkill, it was more than reasonable, and it felt so wrong. If he went to prison as a violent criminal, he’d deserve it, and he’d probably never be able to look at Peter again without tearing up and apologizing, over and over and over again.

And it wouldn’t change anything. Half the people he’d done time with wished with all their hearts they could press rewind on the horrible choices and mistakes they’d made, but it didn’t work that way.

 _I’m so fucking sorry, Peter_. Tears started leaking from his tightly closed eyes. He hadn’t just screwed himself over and traumatized Fowler. He’d let down the person who meant the most to him in the entire world, who’d worked and sacrificed to keep Neal from facing exactly what was happening now.

He’d just have to hope Peter would still care about him, still be willing to take his calls when he needed a gentle voice to talk to, still send him postcards and maybe visit him once in a while.

He would. That caring person who’d sat with him in silence, stroking his head, wouldn’t abandon him.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

Peter snuck up to Neal’s holding cell deliberately, still in deep inner conflict. If he’d talked any other person down from the brink of murder, he’d arrest them. If that person was a felon who’d stolen a gun, he’d absolutely, positively arrest them.

No, that was wrong. If it were Diana, or Clinton, or El - he would find it equally hard.

It was corrupt, letting someone off because you knew them, worked with them, cared about them. Neal was an extension of the FBI, and this was how police violence went unchecked. Loyalty and compassion, justification, everything that made him want to save Neal.

But then there were all those lectures at Quantico about the human side of law enforcement, and making compassionate choices. About serving society and humanity, not acting as a functionary for punishing people.

He wanted to see Neal unguarded. See if he was waiting smugly to get away with almost-murder.

Neal was sitting in the corner, more still and quiet than Peter had ever seen him, with his arms wrapped around his chest, looking tiny. He wasn’t cowering, just completely in his own world and withdrawn from this one.

Peter’s heart tightened in empathy. This was the Neal Caffrey who’d served four years in prison, who knew how to cope with being locked in concrete boxes.

Neal’s eyes were closed, and his cheeks were glazed with tears. He was clearly biting his lip, trying not to cry and failing.

Yeah, Neal was taking this seriously.

Peter remembered the handful of times Neal had called him from prison. Neal just chatted and joked around, but Peter had always known from the tightness in the young man’s tone that he was having a hard time and needed to hear a friendly voice. Those calls had come from the version of Neal who was sitting in this cell right now.

Neal noticed him finally, tried to blink the tears out of his eyes, but there were too many of them, and he had to wipe them away on his sleeve, and sniff.

Peter looked him directly in the eyes. There was grief there, and love, and shame, and pure regret.

“Fowler isn’t pressing charges. He saw your reaction, and he thinks you’ve been through enough. He’s going to prison himself, and he’s not in the mood to want to put you through what he feels right now.”

Neal’s eyes widened. If Fowler wasn’t pressing charges, it was down to....“Peter?”

Peter crumbled. He couldn’t look at Neal like this, tiny and heartbroken, and send him away in chains. Not Neal.

_For all the times we’ve hurt him. For the time an FBI agent got him kidnapped, beaten, and shocked with a stun gun, and he never even threatened to sue us. For Fowler framing him. For throwing him back in prison the day he watched his girlfriend be blown up._

Making your own justice was a hell of a slippery slope. But as an excuse, a neat little self-con, it’d do.

Peter spoke softly, not wanting the tone of his voice to make the words hurt any more than they had to. “You remember what it feels like, sitting in this cell. You remember how sad and how helpless you feel, and how much you wish you could undo this. You remember prison.”

Neal gulped, his eyes still shiny. There was hope in them, but not much of it. He was not counting on Peter to let him off, not by a long shot.

Peter shook his head. “I’m not charging you either. I know you, and I know having almost murdered an innocent man is - going to haunt you. What you’ve gone through today’s punishment enough. You’re staying here with me.”

Peter unlocked the door and opened it. If it had been any other person in a cell, Peter would have thought he was being attacked, the movement was so fast and aimed so directly at him. Neal dove forward, hugging Peter with every ounce of his strength, so tightly it hurt. He pressed his face into Peter’s chest, clinging to him.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. God, Peter, thank you. Thank you.”

“All right,” said Peter, patting him awkwardly on the back. Peter was a lot more comfortable hugging than being hugged, and a few seconds later he gave in and wrapped his arms around Neal, and could feel the tense, fierce sincerity in every muscle, and knew he’d made the right decision. Mercy and friendship were what reached Neal.

Neal had been scared to death, and heartbroken, and deeply hurt. No judge, no prison, could do more to beat this into his skull.

“You hold your head high and focus on moving forward. Be professional, seek justice for the right reasons. Got it?”

Neal drew a deep breath. “Got it.”

“Don’t get flustered around Fowler. Just be straightforward and work the case. Calm, professional, human. Got it?”

Neal nodded, and Peter pushed him away and cuffed him ever so lightly under the chin. “Up.”

Neal grinned. “Oh. Yes. Hit me, that’s very good for the confidence.”

So Peter hugged him again instead. He needed that, after restraining a cooperative Neal so brutally and feeling him tremble, hearing the man he’d do anything to protect cry out in pain he’d inflicted. He needed to wash that out of his soul, and Neal’s.

But Neal was smiling, in that incredibly endearing sort of delight he showed whenever Peter was affectionate with him. He seemed to recognize Peter's guilt, and melted against his chest in utter trust and forgiveness. Neal hurt easy, but he didn’t traumatize easy. He had the bounce-back of a rubber ball.

Neal cocked his head to the side when they entered the elevator to go back up to White Collar. “Your tie’s all messed up.”

Peter straightened it, and rebuttoned a shirt sleeve that’d come undone, and smoothed his hair down. Glanced at Neal. “Button your sleeves over your wrists and rinse off your face, Sinatra. You look like I strung you up from the ceiling.”

Neal grinned, and messed up his already-disheveled hair. “Okay, so now we need you to hit me in the face, just enough for some blood. Punch the wall a few times so your knuckles look scraped up and tuck your gun in your waistband. I’ll practice my best emotionally scarred limp.”

Peter held out until the very end, but he just had to grin. “So - wait. To hide the awful thing that actually just happened, you whip up an elaborate con to make it look like something ten times more blood-curdling?”

Neal waggled his eyebrows. “Ooh, whip. You should make a couple cuts in the back of my shirt.”

“Neal!”

“Let’s face it,” said Neal. “We could both use a little help in the reputation-as-badasses department. This could be just the thing.”

Peter flicked him on the ear.

“Ow,” complained Neal, ducking away and throwing his hands up protectively.

“Yup. Total badass,” said Peter.

“Hey,” protested Neal, practicing his best crestfallen expression. “We’re _white collar_ badasses. Certain concessions have to be made.”


End file.
